


Honor

by BushRat8



Category: Elysium (2013)
Genre: Assassins, CCB, F/M, Honor, Katana, Kukri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 03:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/BushRat8
Summary: Even Agent Kruger sometimes wonders about his orders, and with good reason.





	1. Was There a Man Dismay'd?

 

 

 

-oOo-  Author's Prologue  -oOo-  


 

  
  
Most everyone is familiar with this passage from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade":

 

  
  
  
_Theirs not to make reply,_  
_Theirs not to reason why,_  
_Theirs but to do and die._

 

 

 

As a soldier in the 20th/21st/22nd centuries, Kruger would certainly have been familiar with the idea behind this sentiment;  as an agent of the CCB, even more so.  He takes his orders, he carries them out, and he does not concern himself with the reason why they're given… or does he?

  
The chapter title comes from a line in the poem.  
  


 

 

 

  
  
   
-oOo-  
Chapter 1:  Was There a Man Dismay'd?  
-oOo-  


 

 

 

  
  
  
   
The CCB isn't overrun with female agents, but of the ones that they have, woe betide anyone designated as their targets.  They are as ruthless as the men and often worse;  fully as conversant with such things as weapons, martial arts, and sheer survival.  More than that, some are very pretty, which often gives them an advantage in gaining access where they must.

  
Martha Fourie is not one of them.

  
Oh, she's modestly attractive in her way, but nothing in any way special — something she's found gives her an even bigger advantage over the pretty ones — and when she wants to or needs to, she has an enormous talent for vanishing into a crowd or otherwise passing beneath others' awareness.

  
Sixty-four years old, she's been in the CCB's employ for over forty of them, keeping herself, thanks to the med-bays, at a good, strong, wiry 30.  Too young, she's found, and there's more chance of notice;  too old, and she'll begin to break down.  Three decades, she's decided:  perfect.

  
As a solitary, stealthy hunter, her weapons of choice are a crossbow, a variety of knives, and brass knuckles — she likes to get up close and personal with her quarry — but barring that, she'll dispatch them with anything handy;  as all agents are, she's more than proficient with every method of killing.  Nobody sends Martha Fourie out when the intent is to bring the target back alive.  Her cold assassin's instincts and professional approach to her work have given her a stellar reputation among the other agents, from the newest to the oldest; something in which she takes great pride.

  
She doesn't have a lot of the modifications her confreres do;  none of the Skele-Steel implants on her breasts or her back.  But she does have the ones on her face and wrists — a bit smaller than usual, and just enough for sight, sound, and communication — which is why her thick spill of dark hair and long bangs aren't tied back:  it's to hide the metal temple grafts that would otherwise instantly give her away as an agent of the CCB.  As for the wrist points, they're common enough among Earth's underworld, and earn her no notice.  If anything, they tell those who see her that she's simply dangerous to know, and to give her wide berth.

  
Martha's always on a constant run of missions, leaving a trail of dead bodies behind her, just as she's been ordered.  The CCB uses her for pest extermination, and it will never run out of vermin, large and small, for her to kill.  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
Delacourt's studying the dossiers before her, looking for somebody exceptionally dangerous, when she happens across Martha Fourie's file.  _Pity, it's such a waste_ , she thinks, smirking, _but she's perfect_.  She wishes she could be there to see what's going to happen — playing with someone's head is always so amusing — but of necessity she must stay above such things.  "Activate Kruger," she says quietly to her assistant.

  
It's a matter of moments before the assistant contacts him.  "Agent 32 Alpha 21b, stand by for orders from Defense Secretary Delacourt."

  
Kruger puts his fingers against his earpiece, listening to the metallic feminine voice whining in his head, and he knows Delacourt's waiting for confirmation.  He doesn't know what to make of the order he's been given — he knows perfectly well that it's not his business to question it — but still, sometimes, he does, and he hesitates for a second.  Finally, "Understood,"  he says.

  
And he really wishes that was the case, but it isn't.

  
It's a solo mission, but he still needs transportation.  Drake and Crowe arrive shortly to take him where he needs to go, dropping him off in an arid swath of land that was once the fertile Napa Valley. There used to be world-class grapes here, Kruger knows — for a moment, he remembers the vineyards he knew at home long ago — but there's nothing here now.  All the viable grapevines of quality reside in Elysium's greenhouses, and the rest of them have withered in Earth's dirty air.

  
He's snapped from his thoughts by the sight of a small, dark-haired figure loping toward him:  Martha Fourie, right on time.  She looks left and right, and occasionally over her shoulder, in order not to miss any danger that might approach.

  
"Ah:  the venerable Agent Kruger,"  she says, and there's half a smile on her face that makes it almost pretty.  "After all these years, I'm honored to finally meet the legend."  Then, "You know why Delacourt's sent us out here?  Because she sure as fuck didn't tell me…"

  
As he catches her by the wrist, Martha realizes too late that she missed the direction from which the danger was coming, and she knows why Kruger's been sent to meet her.

  
He drives his knife into Martha's side just under her ribs, and it hurts so much that she cannot make a sound;  cannot scream, cannot cry.  Kruger's free arm slides tight around her — anyone seeing them from a distance would think he was holding her like a lover — and he feels her shaking against him.  When he looks down at her, black eyes to brown, he can see through her pain the question she can't voice:  _Why?_

  
If she were anyone else, he would push this question aside as irrelevant;  it wouldn't matter, because he's only doing his job.  But for Kruger, this is different, and he knows suddenly why he wanted to question the order:  because Martha is just like him:  a warrior and a survivor.  She shouldn't be dying like this, with no chance to show what she's made of.  This mission's a cheat, and Delacourt... Delacourt knew it.

  
This feels like he's killing himself.

  
He says nothing to Martha as she bleeds out her life in his arms, but looking closely, one can see that Kruger's eyes have closed, and he's absently running bloodied fingertips through her thick, dark hair.  If he cannot make her death painless, then at least he can salute what he knows of her fearlessness by removing as much of the outright cruelty as he can.  Were he another man, he might purr at her, nuzzle her temple, gently hum her to her death.  But he can be none other than what he is — hard and fearsome — and this strange, silent calm is the only kindness he knows how to give.

  
It takes Martha longer to die than he thought possible with such a wound, but at last, Kruger feels her breathing slow and stop.  She slumps against him, but still, he doesn't release her.  He can't;  not yet, not until he sorts out in his mind what he's just done.

  
It doesn't take Kruger long to realize that the mission felt wrong from the beginning because it was never about killing Martha Fourie, but rather about Delacourt proving that someone nearly as savage as himself is helpless if she says it's so.

  
That's _exactly_ what it is, he thinks angrily.  It's nothing more than Delacourt showing him that he's putty in her delicate hands;  that she can order him to destroy a fine resource on no more than a whim.  One day, no doubt, she'll get it into her head to make _him_ the hunted.  Well, the hell with her, because he won't have it.

  
Kruger's supposed to bring Martha's body back as evidence of the kill, but damned if he's going to do it. Laying her carefully, almost reverently, on the ground, he studies her, deciding on the best trophy to bring back, before cutting her left hand off at the wrist with one clean swipe of his sword.  The right was her knife hand, he knows, so it will stay with her in death.  It's a small enough gesture of respect for him to give.

  
He calls his crew after that — "No, don't ask questions, just come and fucking get me!" — and when they land, both Drake and Crowe are shocked to see their boss sitting beside Martha Fourie's dead body.  "Not gonna fucking leave her here,"  he says shortly.  "Not gonna give her to the CCB, neither.  Pull up the charts;  help me find a good mountain someplace far away where she won't be found."

  
When Kruger returns to CCB headquarters, Delacourt shouts and rages at him for not following orders in bringing Martha back.  But,  "You go fucking test this, man,"  he snarls, throwing the bag containing Martha's left hand on the table.  "It's hers, and that fall she took broke what was left into a thousand pieces.  You wanted her out? I took her out."  He stares at Delacourt with loathing, wanting to scream at her that he knows how he was used, but holds his tongue.

  
His men join him for several drinks after that.  "Fourie," Kruger says, raising his beer and scowling.  "Fucking good agent, and I heard she was hell with a blade."  He tosses it back.  "Don't trust any of these politicians, boys;  they'll only do to you what they did to her."

  
When Drake and Crowe leave him a couple of hours later, Kruger's still drinking, and he's dropped into a morose reverie.  He thought he knew where he stood in his life, but the day's events have proven him wrong.  So now he'll be looking left and right and over his shoulder, just as he's always done;  but thanks to his hand in Martha's fate, he must never again forget that the worst blindside could hit him straight between the eyes.

  
"Fourie,"  he says again, taking a swallow of cheap Scotch that's as warm as Martha's blood had been on his hands.

  
If he had been another man, he would have added, "I'm sorry."

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	2. Zero Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An order from Delacourt has left Kruger feeling that his honor has been taken away. What can he do to get it back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True zero remorse?  That's Charles Manson, and I don't think anyone wants to be reading or writing anything about him.  Bear that in mind. 
> 
> But this is Kruger, and do we really want to believe he's so one-dimensional that he can't feel or care about anything?  Of course not.  On the contrary, he displays very intense emotions and a great deal of pride.  He's certainly self-centered, but ehhh… what of it?  Aren't we all?
> 
> It's my belief that he doesn't carry that katana just because it's an impressive piece of hardware;  not when the Japanese sword, among the many highly-effective edged weapons he could have chosen from around the world, is so inextricably bound up with a formal code of honor.  Kruger's honor may be elastic to suit the situation and it's become warped over the years, but it's still there.  Ignoring that or acting purposefully against it when giving him an order, as was done in Chapter 1, is a big mistake.
> 
> The surname "ten Wolde" means "near the woods."  Alas, in Elysium's time, the woods have become dry, dead things... but the name lives on.

 

 

 

-oOo-  
Chapter 2:  Zero Remorse  
-oOo-  


 

 

 

  
Damn Delacourt, jerking his chain like that.  Damn her for the senseless order to waste Martha Fourie.  And 'waste' is exactly the word for it.  
  
Kruger doesn't like such waste — the waste of an assassin's talent —and he keeps thinking about that day, growing ever more resentful of the way Delacourt used him.  Martha was young — only sixty-four — but over forty years, she'd built up a fine reputation for cold elegance in killing.  Even he had known of it.  Even he could appreciate it.  
  
Damn Delacourt for making him the instrument of her pointless, sneaky, trickster's death.  He's angry that he couldn't — _didn't_ — allow Martha her pride;  a chance to pull her knife and defend herself against him, and no matter that he would have slaughtered her in the end.  The honor of proving herself a worthy opponent… that's what he himself would have wanted had he been in her place.  
  
Kruger has no remorse about killing her.  It's not in his nature.  But the _way_ he did it…  
  
He has the very devil of a lot of remorse about that.  
  
The whole affair has put Kruger in a godawful bad mood;  so rotten, that even his men barely dare speak to him.  They go about their business, mission after mission, hoping he'll lighten up, but he doesn't.  He can't, not least because he's been shown what his future might hold if he doesn't behave like Delacourt's obedient little puppy.  He's already in the dog house for bringing only Martha's hand back instead of her entire body.  
  
She's resting now, high up in a hidden, frozen cave in the Himalayas where the spy-tech on Elysium will never find her.  It was the least he could do for her.  
  
Kruger kicks one of the Raven's bulkheads, earning a glare from Crowe and an apprehensive grimace from Drake, but he pays them no mind.  "One day to scout around this pit,"  he informs them.  "Let's see how fast we can pick up the intel Dela-bitch wants so we can get out and go the fuck home."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Someone's been laying low, watching the team as they prowl through the scrubby brush and endless stands of dry, dead, broken trees, and presently, because she's curious and not always as cautious as she should be, she gets to her feet to confront them.  
  
Kruger can't help the instant impression that the young woman is the very spit of of Martha Fourie:  the same small, well-muscled build, the same long, thick, dark hair, the same knives at her belt, and a wary expression.  It's the face of someone who's both witnessed death and served it up, and he's interested, because whatever her age is, it's in real time and she doesn't seem that old.  "What you doing here, girl?"  he asks.  
  
She laughs at him.  "I live here.  What're you doing in my territory?"  
  
Kruger snorts, wondering why she isn't afraid.  " _Your_ territory?  Like hell it is."  
  
"Like hell yourself, Ace,"  she snaps back, her fingers closing around the hilt of one of her knives;  not the heavy kukri that serves her for utility purposes, but the straight one meant purely for fighting.  
  
Kruger's scoffing inwardly — does she really think she can take him down with some little metal skewer? — but the woman surprises him when she withdraws it from its homemade scabbard.  It's heavier than he initially thought, with both edges unspeakably sharp, and by the way she gracefully hefts it from one hand to the other, she looks like she's handled her blade just as often as he's handled his own.  "Nice,"  he comments.  "You ever actually used that on anyone, sweetheart?"  
  
"You want to ask the men whose balls I sliced off?"  she counters, eyes flicking below Kruger's belt.  
  
It's an uncomfortable thing for any man to hear, even him;  and, watching her, Kruger feels an involuntary, unpleasant twitch between his legs as he realizes she isn't joking.  He doesn't want to be leaving important bits of himself on the ground because he was an imbecile who minimized an opponent, whether man or woman.  As far as her threat goes, the padded cup he's wearing may be comfortable, but it's hardly the most protective one he could have chosen ( _Idiot!  Next time, wear the hard one!_ ), and it won't adequately shield him, especially if she decides to go on the offense from the side.  Looking in the woman's face, he can see it might well be the first thing she'd attack.  That's in no way a surprise;  if he were a woman, so would he.  
  
Ordinarily, Kruger would simply order one of his men to shoot her, or he'd do it himself, but his sixth sense of such things, honed over fifteen decades, tells him he needs her;  that her knowledge of the area will give him much, if not all, of the information he's come for.  
  
He remembers Martha Fourie for the tenth time that day as he thinks,  _I don't waste good resources.  I hate wasting good resources._  
  
Kruger signals to Drake and Crowe to retreat, and he lowers his own weapon.  "Not gonna hurt you, girl,"  he tells her.  "I just need you to answer a few questions."  
  
"Oh, yeah?"  she retorts, squinting.  "Why do I have the feeling that whenever you say that to a woman, you've got her spread-eagled on the ground?"  Although Kruger's expression gives nothing away, a sudden smirk from Crowe tells her it's probably happened that way more than once.    
  
She considers the options, deciding that cooperation is the best way to go, but it will be on her terms.  "Okay,"  she says.  "You want anything from me, the deal is this:  you shed every weapon you have right now, all three of you.  Every knife, every gun…"  Her eyes are scanning the men.  "… every grenade:  just put them down and walk away.  Your vests, your boots, and all your comms:  off.  Then your clothes, all of them,"  she adds, her nose wrinkled.  She has no desire to see strange men's personal equipage, but being practical comes before any modesty or distaste she feels.  
  
The other two are laughing uncomfortably, but Kruger isn't because he knows exactly what she's up to:  take away their weapons and their heavy vests and boots, and they'll still feel powerful, but take away the security of clothing, and it will play into their instincts to protect at all costs their internal organs and delicate male parts.  It will make them feel vulnerable and uncertain;  might slow their reactions.  It won't work on Kruger — he can and has worked naked when necessary in the past — but it'll certainly unsettle Drake and Crowe, who haven't, and he mentally applauds the woman for her insight and effort. Giving up his weapons is something Kruger would normally never, ever do, but the Raven's scans have already revealed but a single presence — this lone woman — and there's no one else around for miles.  In any case, they're not under combat conditions, and even if she comes at him with both those blades of hers, his assessment of the situation now makes him confident of his ability to disarm and kill her.  There's always the chance she might still manage to wound him, of course, but he knows exactly what she'd be aiming for.  It's a major advantage.  
  
There's a long, long silence before Kruger makes the decision to humor her.  "All right."  He nods at his men.  "Do it."  
  
The woman impassively watches the three men as they first lay all their weapons down, backing off from them until they're out of reach, then slowly strip themselves of armor, footwear, comms, and clothing.  Their implants get a semi-interested once-over as she tells them to sit on the ground, legs crossed, dicks in the dust, and their obedience pays off when she holds up her end of the bargain, providing all the information they could possibly want:  about the local criminal population, supposedly-safe houses, who's running what illegal services, and a whole lot more.  She's especially detailed with long lists of brothels, which she obviously hates.  "Don't know why the Elysium hotshots are concerning themselves with this particular sphincter of the world,"  she adds when she's done talking.  "I'd have left a long time ago, but where do I go where it's not the same?  There's nothing here but a lot of pimps fighting over a town full of strung-out, broke-down whores."  
  
Kruger cocks an eyebrow.  "Sounds like you know more about that than you want to, sweetheart."  
  
"Don't call me sweetheart,"  the woman growls, glaring.  "And yes, I do.  Fucking pimp tried to turn me out when I was eleven, but damned if I'd let him.  First man I ever killed when I stuck a screwdriver in his eye."  
  
Even Kruger can't help a mental cringe at that one.  _That's the sort of fuck-all horrible thing Fourie was famous for_ ,  he thinks;  and,  _Tried turning her out at eleven, eh?  That's fucking iniquitous._   Normally, if he's horny enough, he'll sleep with just about anything that could possibly be regarded as female, but whoever they are, whatever they look like, he requires that they be 16 and not a day less.  That's his own private cut-off between adults and children.  He won't go out of his way to protect a child whore, but he certainly won't patronize one.  
  
_Eleven, huh?_ Kruger thinks again.  That's never been his particular perversion, but the thought comes even so… _Were you anything then like you are now?_   He pins his black-eyed gaze on the woman, who stares back and absolutely refuses to flinch.  
  
Oh, but she's good.  He likes the way she won't back down, and that twitchy feeling is back, though it's of a rather more agreeable type than it was before.  If Kruger weren't so certain he'd stand a dangerously good chance of being gelded if he made such an approach, he'd let her know how appetizing he finds her, with her combative nature and the appealing contrast of dark hair against fair skin that he's liked so much all of his life.  "He must have squealed like a fucking pig before he dropped, eh?"  he says, unable to help a bit of a smile.  "That's something I would have liked to see.  Good for you, doll.  So… how old are you now?"  
  
The woman sighs, because all this 'sweetheart' and 'doll' business… men call her such things when they're catcalling or making loathsome offers to buy the use of her body, and she's sure Kruger sees her as no more than the whore she's spent all her life refusing to be (does he seriously think she hasn't noticed the rush of blood to his lap?).  And there is that element in it — there always is, for Kruger — but there's a whole other reason for the way he's looking at her, studying her, questioning her, admiring her, that has as much to do with someone else as it has to do with her.  "Not sure,"  she answers.  "I'm twenty-eight.  Maybe twenty-nine.  Doesn't matter.  Put your fucking clothes back on and get out of here."  
  
While an embarrassed Drake and Crowe climb quickly back into their skivvies and fatigues, Kruger goes about it in a slower, more provocative manner, because he's a peacock and enjoys showing himself off.  "What's your name, girl?"  he asks, sliding into cup and drab cotton shorts, slipping one slender, shapely leg into his trousers, then the other, and making a lengthy production out of carefully settling the goods into just the perfect position before he zips up his fly.  
  
The woman is have tremendous difficulty not laughing at him for what she sees as a really ham-handed bit of attempted seduction, but bites her tongue lest he rip it out of her mouth;   and she's no fool:  she knows that he could and he will if she offers that kind of insult.  "My age, my name… what do you care?  Who wants to know?"  
  
Kruger is insistent upon getting an answer, because he doesn't want her to be anonymous;  not with what's coming.  He needs to know.  "What's your name, eh?"  he asks again, buttoning up his shirt, then sitting down on a nearby rock to pull on his socks and boots.  "Kruger,"  he adds, tapping his chest;  and, to forestall any questions about his given name, "Just Kruger."  
  
_Okay, all right, fair enough_ ,  the woman thinks.  "Marta,"  she tells him.  "Marta ten Wolde."  
  
_What?!_   That knocks the breath out of Kruger, who nearly chokes in shock.  _What are the chances?!_   "Marta,"  he slowly repeats.  "Hunh.  I once knew a woman named Martha.  You would have liked her."  
  
Marta doesn't miss his use of the past tense, and she backs away slightly.  "That so?"  
  
Drake and Crowe are staring at each other, because they know Kruger, and they know what happened in the arid Napa Valley, and they've realized at last exactly what's going on:  he's seeing tough little Martha Fourie in the woman before him — even before he learned her name, he'd been seeing her all along — and he's replaying in his mind both what he did and what he should have done.  Oh, he's been accommodating and modestly friendly up to now, but that's about to stop;  when this plays out the way the men know it will, it's going to end in combat — what should have happened with Martha, not the travesty that actually occurred — and there's nothing on Earth or Elysium or anywhere else that can stop it.  Unless their commander is in imminent danger of death, they dare not intervene, so they back way, way off.  
  
Kruger's fingers stroke the hilt of his favorite blade.  It has to be knives,  he knows.  This fight… it has to be up close and dirty:  no armor, no firearms, no explosives.  Shooting another person is easy, as is blowing one up, and even using a sword puts one's opponent at a bit of a distance, but getting right in there and stabbing someone will show how much spine you have when the feel of slashed flesh and nicked bone goes straight to your hands.  This one… this Marta… from what he sees and has learned of her, she'll have the nerve to do it if she manages to get close enough.  However small it is, he'll be giving her a chance.  "Ja,"  he says, standing up.  "She was one hell of a stone-cold assassin, and it's too fucking bad I had to kill her."  
  
Both of Marta's knives are drawn before Kruger's finished speaking.  "Did you, now?"  she snarls.  "Well, you're not going to kill me!"  
  
She should be terrified,  Kruger thinks,  and maybe she is, but he doubts Marta's fight-or-flight response ever told her to flee anything a day in her life, any more than his own ever has.  He's impressed.  
  
She's nowhere near the easy target he expected — she's little easier than Martha Fourie would have been — and Kruger notes with professional approval her agility and balance, her footwork and concentration, and he also observes the lack of a flush on her face;  that it only begins to turn pink with actual exertion.  This isn't someone who turns red in blustering anger, liable to stab wildly at him, missing everything because her senses are on overload.  No, this is a cold-blooded snake able to keep her wits about her as she strikes.  
  
Kruger's astonished to find himself driven back several times when both Marta's blades flash way too close, inflicting unexpected cuts on his left arm and high up on his right thigh.  _She'd have made a good solo agent, and a merciless one_ ,  is the thought that runs through his head as he mentally shuts down the pain.  But ultimately, as good as her natural talent and practice have made her, Marta's untrained and can't sustain the intense physical effort required to battle a man like Kruger;  she hasn't a hope of prevailing against him, and at the wrong moment, from the wrong direction, she steps too close, allowing him to grab her at the back of the neck and drive his blade into her side, neatly bisecting her kidney.  He's the last man on earth to be squeamish, but he doesn't want to hear Marta scream after she's been so brave, so he makes sure the wound he inflicts causes such shattering agony that she cannot draw enough air into her lungs to cry out no matter how hard she tries.  It's neither a quick nor a merciful death, but — for his own sake — it's a relatively quiet one.  
  
As he once held Martha Fourie while she was dying, so Kruger now holds Marta ten Wolde as he waits quietly for the blood to finish flowing — for her nervous system to seize up, for her strained, wheezing breath to stop — but it's different this time.  There's no sense of fury;  no feeling that the overcoiffed Delacourt is yanking him this way and that on his leash.  No resources have been squandered,  he tells himself, because Marta would never be allowed to rise above what she is now;  the system of which he is a part would see to that.  Instead, she served a useful purpose, giving Kruger's intel-gathering mission what it needed to succeed;  then, when that was done, he gave her in return what he was so wrong in denying to her namesake:  a chance to die as a warrior instead of a mouse in a trap.  As a little girl, this woman once stuck a screwdriver in a man's eye to defend herself, and he admires those kind of guts.  It's why he lets her bleed out and doesn't just snap her neck:  because that's the coward's way out.  
  
Marta's freezing from the blood loss, and though she knows he's the cause, she's still driven to huddle as close as she can to Kruger for the warmth that will keep her alive just a few seconds longer.  He's bled like that before and knows what she's feeling, so he allows it, holding tight when her shuddering becomes uncontrollable;  and, in the seconds before she dies, he presses a single kiss to her forehead, touching the tip of his tongue to her cold skin, tasting the salt.  
   
It reminds him of old tales he once heard of warriors ingesting the hearts and brains of brave opponents, so that a victor might grow stronger and braver himself.  
  
Kruger is somber and silent as he and his men fly toward the hidden cave in the Himalayas to lay the corpse of Marta ten Wolde to rest beside that of Martha Fourie, rather than leaving her to rot in the dusty, dead place she despised so much in life.  He makes the trip, on CCB time, using CCB fuel, because she had the courage to defy him and fight back even knowing she would die at his hands, and that deserves his respect.  Proper tribute is something Kruger believes in paying when it's been earned.  
  
As he carries her into the cave and lays her carefully down on the ground, he knows he can be proud of how well Marta fought:  for herself, and for the assassin he wronged who bore the same name and looked so much like her;  but, most of all, he's proud for himself because, in the end — though he was so much stronger, with far superior skills — Marta proved to be a worthy opponent;  one who allowed him to take his honor back.  
  
This time, there are no regrets.  Nothing will keep Kruger up nights seething over carrying out an order given by a woman who doesn't understand that even her most fearsome executioner must act with honor if he's to live with himself.  This time, everything was simple, basic, clean, just as it should always be for men like him:  he faced off with another warrior in battle, he fought, and he won.  
  
He's not sorry he killed Marta ten Wolde.  He's not sorry about the way he killed her.  What he cares about is that his honor is restored;  that he can look at himself in the mirror again.    
  
This time, Kruger has zero remorse.  
  


 

  
  
  
-oOo- FIN -oOo-


End file.
